


no longer an afterthought

by apolliades



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Lowercase, M/M, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Pre-Slash, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 08:10:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13267299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: sometimes credence has nightmares so vivid they bleed into reality.





	no longer an afterthought

**Author's Note:**

> this is an old thing from december '16 of which i'm unlikely to write more so i'm uploading it as it is. you're welcome.
> 
> title from little beast by richard siken - "I like him  
> and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought."

he wakes up in the dead of night with a scream in his throat and blood on his hands. for a moment he doesn’t know how it got there but then suddenly he _does,_ he can feel the hot lash of dark leather and his skin breaking beneath it, he can feel the breath rushing from his lungs and he can taste the blood in his mouth where he bites his tongue to keep from crying out. the room he sits in is dark, but just enough light creeps in under the door to glint off the wetness on his palms and the sight of it makes his head spin. credence doesn’t know where he is, or what he’s done wrong. all he knows is that it’s dark, and he’s bleeding, and he’s scared. because he’s bleeding, so he must have done something wrong. 

newt is a heavy sleeper. he’s learned to be through necessity, through sharing a living space with several hundred creatures of varying species and circadian rhythms for several years. but through those years he’s learned not only to sleep through the sounds — he’s become fine-tuned to them. like his body knows which sounds are normal, which are safe to let blend into the general hum of his suitcase home. and which signal danger or distress. which must be woken up for.

the scream has him bolt upright in a heartbeat. 

he tries not to rush in. he really tries, because he knows rushing almost always makes things worse. but he’s anxious, as he eases open the door to the little room credence has been sleeping in. newt’s heart is beating too fast, and it’s a conscious effort to keep his breathing even, because if he’s hurt— god, if he’s hurt—

the first thing newt sees is blood. there’s so much of it, far too much of it, and how could it possibly— his brain threatens to kick into overdrive, alarm bells screaming in his ears. but there’s credence, looking pale and stricken in the middle of the bed, but seemingly unhurt. at least, he doesn’t appear to have sustained any injury that would cause such a sheer amount of _blood._ it’s smeared across the sheets, blurry handprints of it, like someone has tried desperately to wipe it away. 

someone had. for the only blood on credence is on his hands, save a little across his cheek, like he’s been rubbing at it. 

“credence,” newt says at once, putting a huge amount of effort into trying to sound calm and still not quite managing it. “what happened? are you hurt?”

at the sound of his name credence’s head jerks up. he’s shaking, all over, deep tremors making his shoulders quake. his eyes are huge, so dark they reflect the light of newt’s wand back at him. 

“i’m sorry,” he breathes, the words sounding half-strangled. his throat is so tight he can barely force them out, but he has to. over and over. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry.” 

at first, newt doesn’t understand. he can’t even begin to guess at what credence is apologising for. his gaze flits about the room, searching. as far as he knows there’s nothing in here credence could have hurt himself with. nothing he could even have broken by accident. he doesn’t _understand_.

his gaze returns to credence, and finds him hunched up, quiet now, head bowed so low it makes hie neck ache — it’s a familiar ache. and he has his hands outstretched, palms up. newt still doesn’t quite get it, but he moves closer. slowly, always slowly, as though credence is a frightened animal. newt stops a few feet from the bed, and lifts his wand a little higher, so he can see more clearly. 

credence’s palms are sticky with blood, but beneath it newt can see raw, red welts in his skin. some are split open, and they look horribly sore, but nothing like deep enough to bleed so much. gently, newt slips a hand under one of credence’s, and lifts it a little closer to the light.

credence’s fingers twitch slightly against the urge to jerk his hand away, but he knows he mustn’t. he’s good at it now. he’s good at being still, and quiet. he knows how to breathe out harder when the blows land, because it’s easier not to make a noise that way. he knows it hurts less if he doesn’t tense, but that one is a little harder to remember. 

as he carefully examines the wounds, newt has no idea that credence is waiting patiently for him to make more on top of them. newt has no idea that credence is worrying silently that he doesn’t have the belt, and should he? will he be in more trouble because he doesn’t? he should keep it close. have it ready next time. like he’s supposed to. 

but the sting doesn’t come. credence daren’t lift his head to see what newt is doing — but it doesn’t come. 

instead, newt only speaks to him again, very gently. “what happened?” he asks again. “how did you get these?”

credence doesn’t know. he opens his mouth. he’s sorry that he ruined the sheets. he’s sorry that he can’t answer. but his words won’t work. all that comes out is, “i’m sorry,” and then the rest gets stuck in his throat, and no matter how much he tries, it doesn’t work. 

newt still doesn’t understand. his mind is running off on a hundred different tangents, cogs whirring, considering causes and reasons and remembering tina telling him _his mother beats him._ putting pieces together, slowly. he doesn’t understand, but he’s trying to. 

his thoughts have a focus, though. because the cause of credence’s injuries matters, but credence himself, still sitting there trembling, still bowed low — he matters more. slowly, newt releases his hands, and a shiver of confusion draws credence’s brows together. he peeks up at newt without lifting his head. to his total surprise, newt is moving across the room again, and so credence dares to pull his hands back in to himself. he curls his fingers in, even though the movement stings, and cradles his hands close to his chest, protectively, just beneath his chin. 

“i’ll be back in just a moment,” newt says, and he disappears from the room. true to his word, though, he returns moments later, fast enough that credence is still too bewildered to have fallen back into panic. 

this time, newt kneels beside the bed. that confuses credence so thoroughly that he can’t help but stare, until newt looks up at him, and smiles. he snatches his gaze away, then, like he’s been burnt, his heart racing. he murmurs another _i’m sorry,_ and this time newt hushes him, gently. 

“it’s alright,” he says, his voice steady and calm and soothing. he’s opening up some little pouch that he’s fetched from another room — it’s a makeshift first aid kid. “you have nothing to be sorry for.” 

that confuses credence most of all. 

“may i see your hands?” newt asks, and his tone is light, belying the concern written in the lines around his eyes. 

 _ah,_ credence thinks, _here it is._

he extends both hands, takes as deep a breath as he can, and closes his eyes. 

but once again, the blow doesn’t come. his eyes flicker open again, and land on newt. he has one hand carefully cupping one of credence’s, and in the other he holds a small vial, the stopper of which he’s trying to remove with his teeth. credence frowns. the stopper comes loose with a soft _pop_ , and newt smiles triumphantly, letting it fall to the floor and roll away somewhere, probably never to be seen again. 

“this is a healing salve,” newt explains. he doesn’t look credence in the eye as he speaks, but instead at what he’s doing — making sure none of the vial’s contents spills over just yet. credence is glad of it, though. he’s never liked being looked at. it makes everything feel so much worse, in ways he can’t begin to understand. it makes him feel trapped. “it won’t hurt. in fact, it’ll stop it hurting, and speed the healing process. is that alright?” 

the words take him aback, make him freeze for a moment, because— because credence doesn’t think he’s ever been asked if something is alright before. he doesn’t know what to say. he’s not sure what the right answer even is, but he thinks he’s taking too long to provide one now so he just nods, jerkily, and looks away. 

newt isn’t entirely satisfied with that answer, either. ideally, he’d be after a solid _yes, newt, go ahead,_ loud and clear, but he knows he isn’t going to get one. so he pulls credence’s hand slowly closer, and tips the vial just enough. he feels credence shiver when the liquid makes contact. 

“alright?” he asks again, still focusing on applying just the right amount of salve. all he gets in return is another nod, but this one slightly less spasm-y. newt takes that as a good sign. 

he works slowly, carefully, being sure not to make any sudden movements. once the initial anxiousness over credence’s mysterious injuries begins to settle, newt can fall into something of a rhythm. because while he may not have screeds of experience in tending to human patients, he has certainly patched up more than one nervous creature — some of which were trying to kill him in the process. the concept was much the same, wasn’t it? and in theory, this ought to be easier, because credence, at least, understands what newt is saying to him. understands when he says it won’t hurt. 

well. perhaps credence doesn’t quite understand. he knows what the words mean — he just has trouble believing them to be true. 

but as it happens, he doesn’t have to believe them. they prove themselves to be true anyway; newt doesn’t hurt him. the salve soothes away the burning in credence’s hands so that by the time newt winds clean white bandages around them, it doesn’t even sting. he fixes the bandages with tiny little safety pins, one at a time, doesn’t let the sharp points prick him. then when he is done, he sits back on his heels, at looks up into credence’s face, and smiles. 

credence isn’t shaking quite so hard anymore. there’s still tension in his shoulders; he’s still hunched up, as if he’s cold, though the little room is warm. it’s as if he’s held himself that way for so long his body has forgotten how to do anything else. for just a moment, newt feels the urge to set his hands on credence’s shoulders and rub away the strain. he doesn’t. 

rather, he holds credence’s newly bandaged hands warmly in both of his own, and asks, “better?”

in his head, credence is desperately trying not to think of the last person who held his hands like that. the last man who healed him, and spoke to him as softly as that. 

his velvet black eyes find newt’s and for a moment he almost manages to hold them. slowly, credence nods. “better.” 


End file.
